


The Place I'm Looking For

by alotofthingsdifferent, anatomical_heart



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, no crooked media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent, https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: You should think about coming to California. Moving here.It’s 2:00 AM when Lovett sends the text. He’s spent most of the night reminiscing about what his life was like before this nightmare of a President was elected, and it had him remembering the good times back in D.C.—the life he’d built there for a little while.An AU where there is no Crooked Media, Lovett becomes a screenwriter in L.A., Tommy becomes a consultant in Boston, and they try to remain in contact.
Relationships: Jon Lovett/Tommy Vietor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49





	The Place I'm Looking For

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been sitting in our docs for almost two years—the very first thing we ever wrote together!—and we decided it was finally time for it to see the light of day. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Title is taken from "We Might As Well Be Strangers" by Keane.

Nobody ever tells you how lonely it is to follow your dreams. People believe in you, cheer you on—or they don’t—and then they disappear after the going away party’s over. Even when they promised they wouldn’t. Lovett likes to think it doesn’t just apply to him. It’s always _Can’t talk—running out the door._ Or, _Raincheck, next week?_

It hasn’t rained in L.A. for 40 days. Nobody ever tells you how miserable it is to be depressed in L.A., either.

At first, he starts to think that he misses the White House, but that’s objectively insane. He tries to sit with and sit inside the feelings which provoked that thought, and in doing so, he finds what he misses most are the people. Which is so obvious and clichéd it makes him want to scream. 

He and Jon text from time to time—one nice, substantial exchange every week or two—and a phone call now and then. He and Tommy were better, at first. But only at first. They had a semi-regular thing when he first moved out to California—longer calls sprinkled in amongst their texts. Lovett would neg him about getting out of Washington, about having an actual life; it was comfortable. And it wasn’t until their frequency started to slip that Lovett realized how much he'd built this life around Jon and Tommy. How things really weren’t the same without them. How maybe the thing about wanting to stay in touch had more to do with mitigating the feeling of uncertainty that came with big life changes. And maybe the simple reality is that when you put thousands of miles of distance between you and the people you care about, your relationship is never going to be the same.

He celebrated with them when they finally decided to get out of D.C. for good. 

And then Trump was elected president, and they all lost themselves in anger and fear and disappointment over the days immediately after. After the inauguration, things slowed down again. But Tommy never forgot. He always came back with a rant or a joke, and the warmth that would spread through Lovett’s chest was the same as always. 

Lovett keeps a picture of he and Tommy displayed on a shelf in his home, taken back when they were young and green and happy. It’s Lovett’s favorite of them, from some dinner party early on in the presidency. Tommy’s suit jacket was long gone, his tie loose around his neck and a long arm slung around Lovett’s shoulder, both of them beaming. He smiles every time his eyes find it.

***

_You should think about coming to California. Moving here._

It’s 2:00 AM when Lovett sends the text. He’s spent most of the night reminiscing about what his life was like before this nightmare of a President was elected, and it had him remembering the good times back in D.C.—the life he’d built there for a little while. Being in the building stage of his life again sucks. Trying to make friends as an adult man sucks. Feeling loneliness clinging to his body every day, job hunting in L.A., and coming home to his empty studio apartment at night fucking _sucks_. 

He’s been trying to keep in touch with Jon and Tommy. There were texts most days, a quick _How are things going? You doing okay?_ to or from Jon every other morning, checking in, but not too much beyond it. The phone calls with Tommy have been dwindling, as things ramp up for him at his job. But it’s not the same as seeing their faces every day, being with them, or grabbing a drink after work and teasing them about whatever sports game was blaring on the big screen at the bar. It wasn’t the same as _living_ with Tommy—of knowing that he was never alone, no matter what, that every night when his head hit the pillow, Tommy was just on the other side of the wall, tucked safe and sound into his own bed. The thought that he’s left the best friends he’s ever had or will ever have on the other side of the country is a cold, unwelcome knot in the pit of his stomach that makes him reach for his phone.

_You should think about coming to California. Moving here._

It’s presumptuous and a little unfair, but he _misses_ Tommy. (He’s had a bottle of rosé and everything is garbage, so what?)

Tommy should be getting up for his morning run soon. 

_I think even you could make a go at it out here. Plenty of people looking to throw money at consultants in L.A._

He presses send without thinking. And he waits. 

And waits. 

And waits for Tommy to answer.

It does not come.

His house feels empty. His chest aches. And all he can think is...

_I really fucking miss you, Tommy._

It’s true. And he tells Tommy so. Because apparently he just can’t help himself.

He falls asleep face-down on the couch almost an hour later. 

When he wakes up, his mouth tastes awful and he has a headache that he knows will last for at least three days; the bottle of rosé stares at him guiltily from where it’s sitting empty on the coffee table. He pushes himself up with a groan, rubbing at his eyes as he gets to his feet to stumble to the kitchen for a bottle of water. He thanks his last-night self for making a Diet Coke run, grateful for the cold 20 oz bottle in the fridge, and makes his way back to the couch, fumbling for his phone where it’s fallen between the cushions.

There’s a response from Tommy, and he caps his Diet Coke before swiping to read it.

_I sunburn too easily for California_, it says. That’s it.

Lovett promised himself that he wouldn’t be disappointed no matter what Tommy said, but this? This feels like a punch below the belt.

He reads it again, and then a third time, before tossing his phone to the side and swallowing around the angry lump in his throat. 

_That’s_ all Tommy has to say? Really? After everything? After Tommy was the one to lean into Lovett about staying best friends forever like they were fucking children at summer camp or something? And now Tommy can’t even bother to reply to a fucking text message like a human being? 

Lovett wants to send something cruel back, something about him being a _fucking robot_ with a stick up his ass. But he doesn’t. It’s not worth it. Obviously Tommy hasn’t been laboring under any kind of delusions about their friendship. 

So Lovett doesn’t respond at all. Instead, he eats some leftovers, drinks almost a gallon of water, takes a shower, and forces himself to suffer through a 45 minute Peloton workout before raging onto a blank Microsoft Word document. 

By the end of the day, he’s most of the way through a pretty decent pilot script he might be able to shop. 

Huh

And the best part is, he doesn’t think about Tommy at all.

***

_Two Years Later, Washington D.C._

It’s been years since Lovett’s been on the east coast, and he has to admit, he’s kind of enjoying himself. He’s been back about a week now, visiting people he hasn’t seen in so long. It’s been good, feeling the way his body has reacclimated to holding east coast cenergy. There’s that familiar buzz of immediacy or impatience or something that he’s missed. He’s missed New York. He’s missed D.C. Not the work. God, he wouldn’t be caught working anywhere near here again. What a fucking nightmare cesspool it’s become. But he missed Favs and Dan and—yeah, Tommy, too. 

After their last conversation two years ago, where Lovett felt like he put something out there just to get nothing back—some faded-out photocopy of the friendship Lovett thought they had—things changed between them. The calls dried up, the texts were few and far between, and eventually they stopped talking at all. Lovett tried to forget about Tommy, but Tommy was there, in the back of his mind. Not all the time—not even _some_ of the time—just at random moments, when something or another reminded him of Tommy's smile, or his laugh, or his smart, sharp commentary on everything. 

One night Lovett got a little too drunk and scrolled through his camera roll, looking at photos still saved there from years and years ago of he and Tommy and Jon with their arms around one another, beaming at the camera. It made his stomach hurt, thinking of everything they'd been through and how Tommy had just... _forgotten_. _Moved on._ Left Lovett behind like he never meant anything at all. Wasn’t he someone worth fighting for? Didn’t Tommy _notice_ them drifting apart?

Whatever. It’s done. And none of it really matters at this moment—catching up with Alyssa, who looks exactly the same as he remembers her, and is somehow even more brilliant. 

“So, Favs and Emily are on vacation—” she’s saying, and he’s bummed, a little, because he’d hoped to see them. “—but Pfeiffer’s around! Maybe not at this particular party, but I know he’s in town. And Tommy! I actually think he might be here tonight, he’s been—”

She’s still talking, but Lovett doesn’t know what she’s saying. It’s like he’s gone underwater and can’t hear anything, can only see her lips moving. All he can hear, over and over in his head, is _Tommy_, and his stomach is in knots. 

Okay, so maybe it’s not done. Maybe he’s not over it. And maybe it matters a lot. 

Whatever.

Of _course_ he knew there was a chance he’d see Tommy here—the guy hosting tonight is a friend of his—but when faced with the actual reality of it, he doesn’t know if he’s ready. It’s been so long, and he still feels so much.

“Lovett? Sweetheart, are you okay? I lost you for a second there,” Alyssa’s saying, her hand gentle on his arm.

“Huh?” he says smartly, shaking himself from the haze. “Sorry, just—”

She smiles warmly. Knowingly. “I’m here if you need me,” she says, and kisses his cheek, wandering off, no doubt to dazzle the next person she comes in contact with. 

It’s hot in the apartment, and cold outside. He’s got his sweater pushed up to his elbows, and he runs a hand through his hair to covertly wipe the sweat off his brow. 

He takes a sip of wine, finishing off the glass in his hand and pushing everything down, trying to access how he felt when he walked through the door: fucking amazing. The easiest way he can get back there, he thinks, is to talk about his work. 

The problem is solved when a man whose name he can’t remember touches his shoulder. “Jon Lovett?” 

He turns, and fits his smile back over his slack mouth. 

“I _thought_ that was you! How are you?”

Lovett’s smile solidifies and becomes real when the man—Bryan, he suddenly remembers, the name surfacing from somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, thank _god_—gives him his cue. “I’m _great_, Bryan, how are you?”

He loves watching people’s expressions when he tells them what he does for a living now, how well the show is doing. How it’s been _nominated_ this year. He remembers when some of these same people had looked at him with thinly veiled pity when he’d left D.C., like he was chasing dreams he needed to give up on. Triumph is a hell of a drug. 

After talking with Bryan, Lovett decides he needs another drink. He makes his way to the dining room for a refill, tilting his wine glass out to the guy holding the bottle with a flirty smile. He’s handsome and unfamiliar and gives Lovett a wink as he refills his wine glass before heading back into the living room.

Well. A wink, huh? Lovett smirks and stands a little straighter, taking a sip of his sparkling white before heading into the kitchen to peruse the hors d'oeuvres.

He decides after some shrimp cocktail and some artichoke dip that he’s mostly enjoying the party, and he’s only nervously scanned the apartment a few times while talking to other people. There’s been no sign of Tommy so far; Lovett’s not sure whether he’s glad about it, or disappointed, after getting so worked up about it.

Before long, Lovett joins in easily with another group of people, laughing at something one of the women says. She looks familiar, but as he’s learned, so many of the people in the room do. He gets into a good conversation with her about voting and activism, and how easy it can be to get burnt out, but how important it is to stay in the fight even in those hard moments. He likes her, finds he could probably talk to her for a while more, but they’re interrupted by a warm hand fitting against the small of Lovett’s back, and a voice saying politely, “Sorry to interrupt. Could I borrow him for a minute?”

The sure, confident touch makes the hair on the back of Lovett’s neck stand on end, and when he turns around, he can’t really believe it’s Tommy. But of _course_ it’s Tommy. With the same unflattering haircut and the same earnest look on his face he remembers so well. There's something in his eyes that’s different, though, and Lovett doesn’t quite know what to do with it or what it means. 

"Fancy seeing you here," Tommy says, dropping his hand from where he's touching Lovett. When Lovett doesn’t answer, Tommy gives a faint, but sincere smile. "Been a long time, Lovett. You look good.”

Lovett lets his eyes rake over Tommy’s body and his lips tuck themselves inside his mouth. Fuck. Tommy looks amazing. “Hey—yeah. It’s been a—while.” He can’t make his brain and mouth work at the same time. “You too. You, uh—just get here? Just get in? How long have you been in town?” He can’t fucking remember what he’d rehearsed in his head to say in the back of the Uber on his way to the party earlier. 

Tommy doesn't answer any of Lovett's questions. Instead, his smile deepens fondly, and says, "Hi, Jon," a little softer. "You wanna go somewhere and catch up?”

Lovett’s stomach flips, this hopeful little thing that makes him hate himself just a little. He looks away like he's thinking about it, even though as soon as the words are hanging in the air between them, his entire body sings out, _of course I do._

"Sure," is all he can manage, acting casual but feeling like the weight of the world is now hanging on that single word as he shrugs a shoulder and finishes the rest of his wine in one swallow. 

“There’s a bar near here,” Tommy offers as they bundle into their coats, saying a few quick goodbyes before making their way out into the cold. 

Lovett’s shoulders are up near his ears before he can even stop himself. “_Fuck_ it’s cold!” 

Tommy’s laughter is visible in the air around them, the laugh lines around his eyes deeper than before. 

They wander down the sidewalk, ending up at a bar around the corner. It’s a little crowded, but not crowded enough that they can’t grab a table in the back and flag down a server to order a couple of drinks. 

In the dim lighting, Lovett can’t tell if Tommy’s staring at him or if he’s just imagining it, and he has to say something before he starts overthinking things.

“How’s Boston?” he asks, just as Tommy says, “So, your show.”

They both chuckle, and it's enough to break the awkward spell hanging between them, if only for a moment. 

"The show's great, Jon," Tommy says. "I mean it—it's. I'm really proud of you."

Lovett smiles, but then looks down at the table, chewing on the inside of his mouth. "Thanks," he says, and nods to the server as she sets their drinks down.

He can feel his cheeks grow warm. He's—flattered, he guesses? He didn't think Tommy would know about or even watch the show. Or be a fan. Or like it at all. But Tommy’s words go deeper than flattery, to that place inside he keeps hidden where he’s still small and vulnerable, so eager for people to like him. God, how long had he spent wanting Tommy to like him? Even now, sitting here in this dingy bar in D.C., he finds himself clinging to hope that Tommy _does_ care. That he sought Lovett out at the party on purpose, that he _knew_ Lovett would be there and _wanted_ to see him. 

"You still doing consulting, or...?" Lovett knows he sounds like an asshole. How fucking stupid is it that he has no idea what the shape of Tommy's life is anymore? That he has no idea how he fills up his time or his mind or his… heart? He remembers thinking, years ago, when they first met, that Tommy might actually bleed stars and stripes, not just blue, and now he... what? Sits at a desk in downtown Boston? Has a personal assistant? Tells CEOs what they want to hear?

“Something like that," Tommy says, and talks a bit about his job, how it's brought back some of the enjoyment he used to get out of life, how he's not laying awake staring at the ceiling most nights anymore. "So, yeah, I guess things are pretty decent," he finishes. 

Lovett nods, sipping at the last of his drink. Not sure he knows what to say to that. It sounds… fine. A little bland. But maybe Tommy wanted bland after the NSC. Lovett hopes it just isn’t showing too much on his face. Who is he to judge? Tommy needed the sleep, if nothing else. 

"Lovett," Tommy says suddenly, after a moment of tense silence. "I'm—fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Lovett feels some of the color drain from his face, and he mumbles, “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” even though it’s not true, at least not 100%. He feels guilty, suddenly, and he knows he holds blame for the way things ended between them, too. He just… decided to stop reaching out, and they haven’t talked hardly at all in the two years since. 

"Jon," Tommy presses on. "I should have called. I should have texted, or emailed. I—fuck, Jon, I should have made an effort."

Lovett huffs a sad laugh, still not looking at him. "An effort to what?" he asks, using the tiny drink straw to stab at the melting ice cubes in his glass. 

When he finally raises his eyes, Tommy says, “To keep you in my life.”

Lovett swallows hard around the sudden swell of emotion in his throat. And before he can do anything, Tommy wraps his long fingers around Lovett’s wrist and murmurs, “I should have gotten on a fucking plane.”

Lovett’s mind goes blank and his chest starts to ache. He tightens his grip on his glass, grateful for something to hold onto in the wake of something like that. He blinks several times, fighting against the pricking of sudden tears that are not welcome here whatsoever. 

A part of him is bitter and hurting and wonders why the fuck would Tommy get on a plane when he couldn't even send a fucking text message. "What stopped you?" he hears himself asking. "Frequent flier miles run out? Did you downgrade from unlimited texting? Verizon's new corporate plans are shit." 

"I was in love with you,” Tommy says, and it comes out so easily that Lovett has to put a hand to his mouth to stop a quiet sound from escaping. “I was so fucking in love with you, Jon, and I never told you. Talking to you, keeping things going like that—it hurt too much.” He pauses, searching Lovett’s eyes, his own eyes glassy in the dim bar lighting. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "You have every reason to hate me, and I don't blame you.”

That makes Lovett angry. "Are you _fucking serious,_" Lovett hisses, turning in his seat to glare at Tommy. "You decide after not talking to me for two years the best thing to do is tell me you're _in love_ with me in this shitty bar in Logan Circle?" 

Tommy blinks at him and sits back a little. 

It's easier to be angry. That's the lesson he's taken away from Trump becoming president. Anger is easy. And anger gets shit done. Shit, anger helped him write a script that's gotten him nominated for a fucking Emmy. And anger is going to get him out of this mess because he actually doesn't have the capacity to hope anymore. He doesn't have the capacity to actually believe Tommy when he's telling him softly and sincerely that he was, once upon a time, so much in love with Lovett that trying to be his friend was killing him inside. _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Because anything—anything _at all_—is better than nothing. Dumb text messages and stupid voice notes and scheduled fucking phone calls are infinitely better that the death of their friendship. And he _actually can't_ think about Tommy loving him because it will destroy him. He will bend. He will yield. And his heart will shatter onto the table in front of them because if either of them was in love with the other, Lovett had gotten there first. It was _his_ thing to be in love with his roommate and friend, not Tommy's. Tommy won’t take that away from him, too.

“I'm sorry," Tommy tries again, his voice a little haggard. "It was stupid, I know that now, I should have—I could have handled it better. It just felt like everything was suddenly too much, you know? And I should have just dealt with it. I wish I _had_." He blows out a harsh breath and runs a hand over his face. "The truth is," he says, reaching across the table to touch Lovett's wrist with two fingers, "Being in love with you—even if you didn't feel the same way—it was the best thing I had. Some days, it felt like the _only_ thing I had. I didn't want to reach out again just to find out that you were happier—better off—without me." 

Lovett is red in the face, his brows knit together in an angry frown. "Was it worth it?" Lovett croaks out, his heart racing. "Did it make you happy? Are you happy, Tommy?”

Tommy gives him a sad smile. "Nothing was ever worth losing you over, Lovett. Nothing.”

Lovett has the panicked realization that he’s going cry. Like, actual tears. That Tommy is taking a wrecking ball to everything he had built up in his mind about what had happened and offering Lovett the world that’s been trapped on the other side of it.

“You are—so _stupid,_” he chokes out. By now, the look on Tommy’s face is causing him actual physical pain. So he reaches up to bring their mouths together in a kiss, because it’s the only thing he can do. He can’t form all the words it would take to say the things clamoring for voice inside of him. 

Tommy makes a surprised sound against Lovett's mouth and kisses him back immediately, both hands coming up to cup Lovett's face. The kiss is fervent but sweet, as Tommy brushes away the tears from the corners of Lovett's eyes with his thumbs. He kisses as well as he does everything, Lovett supposes. It’s—fuck. It’s perfect. And he feels like this is the beginning of some exquisite ruining of him. Like once the kiss is over, everything will change, and he’ll never be the same again.

He’s not sure who pulls away first, but Lovett feels a bit dizzy when the kiss ends. Tommy reaches across the table and grabs his hand. “Lovett, I’m not—nothing's changed, for me. Not where you're concerned. It’s you.”

Lovett exhales, giving himself the luxury of closing his eyes and leaning back against the booth. He feels short of breath, and when his heart rate finally slows, he opens his eyes and leans forward, settling a hand on Tommy’s thigh. “Can we get out of here?”

Tommy laughs, relief pouring off of him in waves. "Yeah, Lovett. Of course we can." They stare at each other, grinning a little stupidly, until Tommy finally laughs again, shaking his head. “My hotel’s not far from here. You wanna—”

“Yes,” Lovett says firmly, and pushes at Tommy’s shoulder, urging him out of the booth. He throws a wad of cash on the table—more than enough to cover tab and tip—and they hurry out of the bar, Lovett’s heart racing and palms sweating. He feels giddy, his skin humming, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like a maniac as he follows Tommy through the door.

The walk back to the hotel is a short one, but the anticipation hanging in the air is electric. Every time their elbows knock together, or their fingers brush, Lovett watches the way Tommy tries to suppress his smile. His heart pounds against his ribs, and the glances Tommy keeps stealing at him in the elevator are so full of promise they make Lovett’s mouth go dry.

"Do you want a drink?" Tommy asks, when they're safe behind his hotel room door. "There's stuff in the mini bar, and I have—"

"Tommy," Lovett says, exasperated. "I've been waiting for _years_ for this. Are you really gonna make me wait any longer?"__

_ _All the breath rushes from Tommy's lungs. He stares at Lovett with wide eyes, his mouth open. “Lovett,” he says helplessly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and Lovett chuckles softly, crossing the room until he’s standing in front of Tommy, close enough that he can rest a hand on Tommy’s hip and use the crook of his finger to gently close his mouth._ _

_ _“What, you thought you were the only one?” he asks._ _

_ _"Oh my god, I'm an idiot," Tommy says, finally realizing what Lovett meant when he called him _stupid_ back at the bar._ _

_ _Lovett’s stomach does an odd little swoop. How had Tommy not realized every single moment Lovett flirted with him shamelessly? Every time Lovett pretended to care about sports? How it was unfailingly Tommy who he would call in the middle of the night, when self-doubt and loneliness was eating away at his bones in L.A.? How his whole heart was stained with Tommy?_ _

_ _Lovett squeezes Tommy’s hip and leans in closer, nosing at Tommy’s collarbone. “You never listen to me,” he says, pressing a kiss to his pulse point and then shoving him onto the bed. Why be coy now, he thinks? All their cards are on the table._ _

_ _Tommy laughs, breathy and excited, sitting back on his elbows, looking up at Lovett expectantly._ _

_ _Lovett climbs onto the bed, straddling Tommy’s hips, pulling him up to kiss him again like he’s been wanting to since... “Do you remember the night of the first State of the Union?”_ _

__Lovett was a wreck. He hadn’t slept because of all the rewrites, and Jon had flat-out told him he needed to _dress up_ for the occasion._ And put on a fucking tie,_ he’d spat, irritably. Jon had it worse than he did, so it was forgivable. Lovett didn’t have a tie, though. Not on him, anyway. 

Tommy had walked by his tiny office and heard him grumbling, so he poked his head back in. Once Lovett explained the situation, Tommy wordlessly reached into his messenger back and took out a necktie that was still in the box like it was _fucking normal_ to carry a spare around. After giving him about five minutes worth of shit, Lovett put it on, thinking that Jon could probably live with his four-in-hand knot. When Lovett turned to Tommy, unsure and running a self-conscious hand through his recently-shorn hair to asked what he thought, Tommy grinned and leaned against the doorframe of his office. 

_You look great, Lovett. You always look great._ Lovett had just blinked at him, owlish and stupid, because he did _not_. and it should be a crime for someone so attractive to lie so smoothly to his face. _Knock ‘em dead tonight,_ Tommy said, knocking against the doorframe twice as if it were a good-luck gesture.

And that was it for Jon Lovett. That small moment he occasionally took out and examined in the shifting light of his life since D.C., wondering if he had made some horrible fucking mistake in never sharing with Tommy how much he loved him. And then casting it aside because it was never going to happen, and it was better to be Tommy’s friend than not in his life at all.

Tommy pulls back to look at Lovett, his brow creased and his lips parted.

Lovett looks right back at him and nods, then kisses him so softly he feels his heart start to mend.

_We could have had this all along,_ he thinks for a moment. But it's pointless to dwell on it for too long, when they can't go back. They can go forward, though, together, from here, and there's nothing Lovett wants more. 

"Jon," Tommy whispers against Lovett's mouth. "I'm so sorry."

"Make it up to me, then," Lovett says, like a dare, and Tommy laughs, relaxing, and flips them over so that Lovett's beneath him, looking up at him with wide, surprised eyes.

"Hi," Tommy says, kissing the tip of Lovett's nose. He eases Lovett's glasses off of his face, folds them up, and sets them on the bedside table before running the fingers of one hand through Lovett's messy hair. "I’ve missed you so much."

"Yeah, yeah, I missed you too, Tommy.” He flashes a grin. “Now c'mon, get your clothes off, I've waited long enough."

Tommy’s smile is so wide it must hurt his cheeks. "Okay," he says, between kissing every inch of skin he exposes while undressing Lovett. 

Lovett's breathless beneath him, his hands fisted in the sheets. 

Tommy kisses the jut of Lovett's hipbone, the soft trail of hair beneath his navel, and tugs the waistband of Lovett's underwear down over his dick. "I love you," he says, eyes on Lovett as he takes Lovett into his mouth.

“_Hah_.” It’s caught between a laugh and a gasp. But Lovett’s grinning up at the ceiling, heart fit to burst, tears gathering once more in his eyes. Of course Tommy wants this to be the world’s most romantic blowjob. And you know what? That’s fine. Lovett’s falling for it, hook and line. He’s long since gone, and this is something he hadn’t even known how to hope for anymore. He’d given it up, thinking he and Tommy had just become strangers again and was trying to make a life without him. The whiplash makes him dizzy and has knocked his tongue loose.

“First time I ever jerked off thinking about you was in the kitchen staff bathroom during a state dinner,” he admits, letting it hang in the air. 

Tommy groans around Lovett's dick, and Lovett laughs, breathless, and threads his fingers through Tommy's hair. "Oh you like that, huh?" he manages, the last words choked off a little at the end when Tommy takes him deeper. 

"Thought about this so much," he goes on, while Tommy works him over with his mouth. 

Tommy pulls off with a wet pop, grinning up at Lovett, his cheeks red and his lips shiny-wet. “Good to know you still don't know how to shut up," he teases, and wraps his hand around the base of Lovett's cock, jerking him slowly. "Tell me more.”

Lovett moans as Tommy grips him tighter than expected. It’s so fucking good, and he tosses his head to the side, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He licks his lips and remembers it: his forehead pressed against the wall, feverishly working his fist over his cock, gritting his teeth to keep from making a sound. Not a soul around because dinner was about to be served.

“Y-you had on that... blue Brooks Brothers suit you always wore,” Lovett says. “You were _so_...” He lets out a whimper as Tommy licks a hot stripe across his balls. “And you cornered me after...”

Lovett needs Tommy sucking him down again, because his hand is incredible, but it’s agony after feeling the addictive heat of Tommy’s mouth working around him. “Please, Tommy, _more_.” 

“I remember," Tommy says, keeping his hand on Lovett as he works his way back up Lovett's body, peppering kisses along his rib cage. "You looked so good that night," he says, kissing the hinge of Lovett's jaw, biting at his earlobe. It occurs to Lovett then that Tommy is still fully clothed, but he can't bring himself to care, not when Tommy's working his dick so perfectly, and not when Tommy's mouth is against his again.

"Tommy," Lovett pants, turning his head from the kiss. "I'm gonna—this isn't gonna last long if you don't—"

"We have all night," Tommy whispers, flicking his wrist, squeezing Lovett a little tighter. "More. I could fly out—I mean, if the invitation is still open—”

Lovett's eyes snap open and he looks up at Tommy, who is looking back at him with such intensity and love it leaves Lovett gasping as he tenses and shakes and comes all over his belly. A soft, mewling noise tumbles out from between his lips as Tommy goes to lick it up, _Jesus Christ,_, and he curls his fists in Tommy's shirt, pulling him back up the bed so they’re looking at each other again.

Lovett's breathing is shallow and indignant and loud—in the room and in his ears. He’s kinda pissed that Tommy would just—just—_assume_ that the invitation to come to California would still be open, after two fucking years of radio silence. But at the same time, he has to admit that he’s completely swept off his feet. “Are you saying you’re finally considering getting on a fucking plane?” 

Tommy smirks at him, brushing Lovett's hair back out of his face. "I'm just saying," Tommy says sweetly. "We have a lot of catching up to do.” He wrinkles his nose and tries again. “Making up to do. And I wanna see what this could be between us, so if you don't have any other plans…”

Lovett’s bright fucking red and even though his thighs are still shaking, he forces himself to start talking and joking, because he thinks he might legitimately be careening toward a heart attack. "Are you kidding? I’m an Emmy-nominated screenwriter. I’m _very_ busy and this is all _very_ out of the blue, so I’m going to have to have one of my _many_ assistants check my schedule and see if I can squeeze you in.”

“I’ll bet you can _squeeze me in..._” Tommy murmurs lowly, leaning in to kiss the hinge of Lovett’s jaw.__

_ _“_Thomas_,” Lovett scolds, nudging Tommy off of him with his hip. _ _

_ _Tommy laughs as he flops down next to Lovett, lounging shamelessly. He's pleased with himself, Lovett can tell: flushed and grinning bright enough to light up the eastern seaboard. _ _

_ _The corner of Lovett's mouth quirks upward and he leans toward Tommy, reaching up with one hand to trail his thumb across Tommy's bottom lip, pulse thrumming in his ears._ _

_ _Tommy's smile fades as he takes in Lovett's serious expression. _ _

_ _Lovett presses a kiss to Tommy's mouth, and says, "I've loved you for a long time." _ _

_ _Tommy wraps a gentle hand around Lovett's wrist. _ _

_ _"And,” Lovett continues, “I'm—sorry that..." He looks down and shakes his head with a soft sigh. "That I didn't tell you. Maybe not right from the start, but before I left D.C., at least. You deserved better than that.” He pauses, studying Tommy’s face for a moment. “And that whole thing about when I told you to come to California...” Lovett hates the memory of that morning after sending those messages, hungover and his stomach roiling with rejection. No, _perceived_ rejection. “I was so... _angry._ At you. And that fucking stupid reply message."_ _

_ _Tommy starts another round of_ I'm sorry, _but Lovett covers Tommy's mouth with his hand. "I know. It's done." _ _

_ _Tommy nods and goes quiet. _ _

_ _"I love you," Lovett says again, and he thinks maybe he can get used to this. To Tommy back in his life—to _loving_ Tommy. Out loud. For real._ _

_ _To Tommy loving him back._ _

_ _"So... if you still want this. If you want _me_... then..." Lovett shrugs and kisses Tommy, featherlight, lacing their fingers together. He can feel Tommy’s mouth stretching into a grin, and it makes his heart skip a beat. He meets Tommy’s eyes and clocks the way Tommy’s searching his face, expectantly, like he’s waiting for something. Waiting for Lovett to say the words, to let Tommy right the wrong he created two years ago. Finally, chest full, Lovett murmurs, “You should really think about coming to California.”_ _

_ _Tommy makes a soft sound at the back of his throat and reaches for Lovett, his hands warm on Lovett’s hips as he rolls them over again, blanketing Lovett’s body with his own. He cups Lovett’s jaw gently, stroking his thumb over Lovett’s lower lip, and nods, his face not hiding an inch of emotion. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way, and Lovett pinches Tommy’s side, his cheeks flushed, silently urging him to say something._ _

_ _“For how long?” Tommy asks._ _

_ _Lovett shrugs and runs a hand through Tommy’s hair. “Let’s see where we are in a couple of years?”_ _


End file.
